Who's Going to Sign My Permission Slip?

I'm pooped.

Just last night I laid in bed trying to muster up some energy to say, "NO!"

No you can't have juice this late at night.
No you can't watch cartoons because I'm watching football.
No you can't play the Wii because it's time for bed.
No you can't throw the ball in the house because you might knock something over.
No you can't fake an illness to miss a day of school.
No you can't finish off your bag of Halloween candy.
No you can't have a new mommy (trust me, you'll want to trade her in too...eventually).
And no, my name is not Susan! (oh wait, you can thank Whitney Houston for this one).

I select my battles wisely. I know the importance of saving all my energy for the "war". Tooth-brushing, picky-eating, and mouthing-off are nothing. Give me the I-forgot-to-do-my-homework-again fights. I'll show up to those all the time, ready and willing to duke it out for as long as necessary. That, is what I signed up for.

There are moments in motherhood (and life) when I question everything.

"Is this really my life?"
"Have I lost my identity?"
"Is there room for all this...and more?"
"Where is the period at the end of this sentence?"
"Am I being punished?"

I know I'm complaining, we all do, but lately I'm feeling like my job description is a little blurred.

Before you become a parent, everyone shares their advice on what to do, all while insisting there is no real manual for parenting. And that's the truth. No two chapters have been the same in my book of life, and that certainly holds true for my book of motherhood. Hell, I'd be lucky if I had a page, a paragraph, or a sentence for that matter. Every second presents a new challenge and causes change. If anyone ever attempted to write a manual for parenting, I just hope their supply of Wite-Out is plentiful. Just saying!

The fact is, I am tired of feeling like I need permission.

Permission to relax.
Permission to slack.
Permission to sleep.
Permission to hide.
Permission to scream.
Permission to cry.
Permission to drink.
Permission to dream.
Permission to run.
Permission to hurt.
Permission to not.

It seems like everyone wants a piece of the power, but no one wants to do the job.

Finding school clothes.
Sports practice.
Cleaning (very minimally). 
Checking homework.
Preparing (micro-waving) dinner. 
Answering endless questions. 
Setting guidelines.
Showing up.
Bed time rituals. 
Sucking it up. 

It's by far the hardest job I've ever applied for, but I still have no clue as to who is going to sign my permission slip. There is really no one to report to but myself. I have my own set of rules and routines, I answer to me (resist the temptation for a biblical reference).

I guess you all can put away your fancy pens. The dotted line no longer needs a signature. I APPROVE of myself.

"It don't mean changing who you are to be who somebody wants you to be...My heart is my possession, I'll  be my own reflection." -J.S.

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